


Complicated

by mistydayjudge



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, References to Drugs, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 16:17:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21139556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistydayjudge/pseuds/mistydayjudge
Summary: The time he saved her—the time she saved him—the time one of them died. A short exploration of the relationship between Zsasz and an original Batman villain, Mary Mortimer.





	1. Fugue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a few years of development behind Mary and her crew the Renegades and they'll get their own story eventually. I'm planning a couple of different universes for them right now. Want to get them finished before I start posting.

When the first flickers of consciousness began to re-enter Mary's mind she immediately wanted them gone again. She felt like someone had rolled her down a hill after a particularly bad rainstorm. Like her bones were going to vibrate right out of her body or she was going to throw up her lungs. She was only a little aware of the luxuriant bed she was laid out in and the voice mumbling somewhere else in the room.

'Go back to sleep', her brain said. The part that could still form thoughts. 'Just sleep.'

And she did. As soon as they were opened her eyes shut again and she drifted away.

Victor Zsasz, who sat at the coffee table with a disassembled rifle, looked up when she let out a groan. He had been at her side for two days now and would still be there later in the evening when she finally flopped over and felt like interacting with the world again. She landed on her back, upper half on his stomach, staring straight up at the ceiling. There was no indication she knew he was there until her hand, thumb tucked beneath the pointer, began to wiggle side to side.

He chuckled. “Bathroom?”

The thumb came loose, held against the side of the hand now, and there was a quick, decisive downward motion.

More awake, she tried to get her numb legs beneath her, but the will left her lungs. The nausea was gone, leaving behind this desiccated feeling. Like she was the husk of dead insect still attempting to protect the softness that made it a living creature. He picked her up in his arms instead. She buried her face into the warmth of his chest.

“Wuh happun?” Came muffled.

“You feel like shit, because Scarecrow drugged you. Got there before he could do any real damage, though.” He backed in and set her down.

Someone had changed her into a nightdress she didn’t recognize. Dark blue. Way too big for her so that it hung around her knees and hid the fact she wasn’t wearing a single stitch of underwear. Victor respectfully kept his eyes to the floor as she peed. She wondered where the women he worked with were. Then where her renegades were.

Those thoughts spiraled and spiraled until Mary realized her bladder was empty, but her nose was dripping unshed tears. He noticed, of course. They spent the rest of the night buried under several blankets with one horror movie after another playing on a bulky CRT tv.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two hand motions Mary makes are ASL for "bathroom" and "yes" respectively.


	2. First Blood

Zsasz turned to adjust the pillows behind him when pain speared through his side. “Aw fuck!” He grabbed it on reflex and felt warm liquid spilling from a cut in his suit. “Hey, uh, doc.”

  
“I thought I told you to stop calling me that.” She called from the hallway. “What is it?”

“Turns out I _did_ get shot.”

  
A second later she was in the living room again, knelt in front of him and poking at the injury. “Shit. You sure did. Doesn’t look bad but the bullet is still in there I feel it.” Mary returned to the bathroom and returned with her supply bag and another he hadn’t seen before. From this new one she pulled out a glass cup which she filled with rubbing alcohol and an odd-looking pair of large tweezers.

Something he recognized as a sewing kit and a lighter came from her other bag. “Strip. Just the chest.”

  
Zsasz smirked and began pulling off his clothes. She rolled her eyes. As soon as he was done throwing his clothes onto the floor she pushed on his shoulder and motioned for him to lay down.  
She explained each step as she went.

  
“If I sterilize these forceps in the fire directly it’ll take forever for the metal to cool down. The alcohol sterilizes them and burns off real easy.” The tweezers—no, forceps—made a_ tak tak_ noise when she clicked them together. They barely fit in her small hand but she seemed to have a good grip.

  
He looked down at where her other hand was resting on the side of his stomach. Small and slightly cold but soft and left a pleasant tingling where her skin touched his. He could almost imagine her slender fingers tracing the raised tally scars on his arms. Lazy patterns on his chest. Hungrily digging for purchase amongst the muscles of his back.

  
A sharp stab of pain drew him out of his head. “Shit! Warn me, alright?”

  
“Sorry.” The tips of the forceps hovered just above the hole. “I’ll warn you if you promise not to smack me, yeah? Sorry I don’t have any pain medicines on hand.”

Zsasz chuckled. “I’ll try not to.”

  
And try he did. It was hard with metal several inches long reaching in and stretching the edges of his wound. He pinned the arm on that side beneath himself and the other grabbed at the back of the couch. Through his pain clouded mind (and strained grunts) he could barely hear her. Softly speaking to him, trying to sooth him.

  
“Almost got it… There… There it is.” The tugging stopped and the forceps began to slip back out. “Doin’ good, Victor. Doin’ good. You can have some whisky when I’m done.”

_ Pop._ And it was out.

She quickly cleaned, stitched, and recleaned the wound. “Want to keep the offender?”

  
He nodded. “Might be able to narrow down who the unlucky fucker to land a hit on me was.”

  
She dipped it in the leftover alcohol, turning the clear liquid pink with blood. Then set it on the table to dry.

  
“What about the whisky you mentioned?”


	3. End of the Line

Mary slid around a corner, perfectly aware she was alone and unarmed. He, on the other hand, had two guns and one bullet for each day of the year. She took long, slow breaths in through her mouth to keep the noise down.

He wouldn’t stop. It was what he did best aside from the killing. Mary knew how thoroughly fucked she was. And was enjoying it.

“Don’t make this too hard on me now,” he said, entering the warehouse’s central room. “I may forget to make it quick if I get too excited.”

There were crates of whatever the other renegades had decided to horde that she could’ve hid behind. One of the two Ladas Stanis insisted on having. If she could backtrack, get back to where her phone sat on the lab counter, and get ahold of one of them that would be _something_. Maybe it wouldn’t keep her from dying, but they’d know what happened to her.

Victor approached the column she hid her small body behind. His voice gave away that he chose to hang left. “Maaaaary. Your middle name is Dean, isn’t it? Seems a little masculine for a daughter. Family name?”

She edged around the opposite side. Even now, despite the circumstances, she couldn’t help but smile. When certain that the column was between them and that there were sturdy things for nearby cover, she booked it.

The first shot nicked the cement. The second pinged off the railing inches from her arm, but she kept going. More teasing. If he wanted to hit her, he would have.

Mary threw herself into the double doors and he began running. A giggle caught in her throat. Then he was on her. Before she could process that he’d caught up, he’d hooked an arm around her waist and was hauling her back through the hallway. Back out to the main room to throw her on top of the Lada’s hood.

“He’s not going to be happy about the dent.” The impact stunned her so she slurred her words.

Victor loomed overhead, so close his thighs were between her knees. “I don’t think that’s the only thing he’ll be upset about.” He looked to the gun in his hand then raked his gaze along her body. “You know… not too happy about this one either.” He leaned over to rest on his free forearm.

It was like being smothered by a very warm weighted blanket. Almost distracted Mary from the cold barrel against her temple but not the building burn inside her. There was nothing she could do now. No fleeing. No overpowering a man whose sole purpose was to be better than his prey. All she could do was loop her arms around his neck and pull herself upwards.

She intended to kiss him on the cheek but Victor met her halfway. 

Then pulled the trigger.


End file.
